


Late

by ussgallifrey221b



Series: To Build a Home [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Parenthood, Pregnancy, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: "I'm late."





	Late

The day had started, like absolute clockwork, to the sound of persistent meowing. Alpine kneaded his paws, claws and all, into your back. And happily plopped himself down with his butt directed towards your face. This was, unfortunately, not unusual. The soft whimpers on the baby monitor were also becoming a new normal.

It takes a gargantuan effort to disentangle yourself from the heavenly sheets and the annoyed white cat. Sitting on the edge of the bed to gather yourself for the day. Rolling your shoulders, trying to get the tight kinks of sleep out.

Pulling on the gray robe at the end of the too-big bed, you pad your way across the hall. With your hand on the doorknob, you can hear the soft cries stop inside and the shuffle of little feet on the mattress.

Becca's grabbing the railing of her crib and giving it a powerful shake, excitedly babbling out, "mamma, mamma."

"Morning, baby girl."

She gives that happy baby smile, her front teeth looking too big for her own mouth. Her eyes are bright and you can tell she's already planning out her missions for the morning. Will she be climbing on to the counters today? Maybe dropping her clothes and diaper down and going for a naked pee-filled run through the house? It was always a mystery that usually ended up in about half of a container of used bleach wipes.

"Look at that hair, little miss," your smile is soft as you run through the sleep-ridden curls with an affectionate hand. You can't help but wonder if her hair will get as dark as her daddy's. 

Her laugh is high and breathy as she squeals, lifting her up and out of the crib and holding her so she  _ flies _ her way to the changing table.

With Becca happily smashing her breakfast onto the white tray of the highchair, getting bits of bananas in her hair and smearing the strawberries across her face like lipstick, you munch on the pack of saltine crackers. The radio plays upbeat Motown hits from the speakers in the living room. The sunlight is warm on the wooden floor. Alpine curls into a diamond-shaped patch in front of the window.

The day passes by in all its usual glory. The food gets thrown from the high chair. Hair is cleaned and brushed of forgotten breakfast bits. A few kicks to the legs during the second diaper change. Stepping in bits of mashed fruit and soggy toast that had been tossed a considerable distance. The insistent babbling for  _ "ca-toons, mamma!" _ When the reigning terror is happily focused on her Mega Blocks and Elmo, you're able to lay down on the couch behind her. A full night of sleep wasn't nearly enough of an energy boost to keep up with your darling sixteen month old right now.

You managed to close your eyes for only a few wonderful moments before a chubby hand is smacking your face with a joyous giggle. Despite her continuous attack, you're too exhausted to open your eyes. Until she grabs a chunk of your hair and gives a hard tug. Your hand flies to the strands to pull them from her tight grasp, eyes open with a frustrated flicker.

"Miss Becca Bear, mommy really does not have the energy for this right now."

She giggles and smacks you right on the nose.

During an early lunch, you keep yourself busy by hanging on to the toilet. That sickly acid feeling in your stomach refusing to ease up. With each empty heave bringing it closer to the surface, but stubbornly remaining firmly down. You spit a gob of saliva into the bowl and force yourself back into the kitchen. Once she's down for a nap, you collapse gratefully onto the couch. Setting the baby monitor on the armrest above your head. Sinking into the stolen bedroom pillow and fleece throw blanket for maybe a lucky hour and a half rest.

She is generous today, letting you have a whole two hours to catch up. The rings under your eyes say otherwise. The temperature outside has dropped, the sky growing dark as you walk down the stairs with Becca on your hip. You had promised you'd go outside today. It might have been a lie to get her to power through her dinner last night, but you still feel a bit guilty. Maybe tomorrow.

She presses her face up against the glass of the screen door, creating smears with her hands and lips, as she watches the rain starting to fall. You break out the coloring books and crayons, skillfully pulling her hand away each time she tries to bring one to her mouth. The radio's playing hits from the eighties now. 

Tomato sauce is wiped across her face, staining her clothes and useless bib. Another night has gone by at a lonely snail’s pace, you forgo the bath in favor of the faster baby wipes for clean up. Maybe you'd call in for reinforcement tomorrow if your mom was free. It was four days now since her last bath, not that she  _ really _ needed one. The sink was overflowing with crusted plates and spoons. Everything was just too much to handle right now on your own. 

A good ten minutes of crying on the baby monitor, and then she was out. She was getting better at falling asleep on her own. Having given up bottles only two weeks ago. Turning her head up at the taste and refusing them flat out since. Your production was down, of course, and you had read that the taste would change. She didn’t need it for her diet anymore, it was just the nighttime staple. You'd tried everything. Stories and lullabies, hopeless rocking. Eventually just giving up and putting her right down in the crib after a few books and hoping for the best. You never had her cry it out. He couldn't handle it, always rushed in after five minutes to try and soothe her down to sleep again. But you were alone in this. And you were  _ tired. _ And you were sick. And you had no idea how you were going to handle another.

But now, on the monitor, you see her curled up with her brown bear that smells heavily of slobber. You meant to wash it, but never had the chance between naps. Maybe tomorrow.

At eleven, with a cup of peppermint tea and a plate of lightly buttered toast to munch on, you hear the front door unlock.

It creaks as he shoulders his way inside. Duffle bag quickly dropped near the pile of shoes and boots as he spots you on the couch. He strides forward with five large steps, hands reaching out for your face. His hair is so much longer now, his face holding an impressively scraggly beard. The bruises along his temple and left eye are a sickly yellow and purple. The cut along his cheek will be gone in a few days, but you'll still fuss over it anyway. You wonder how bad it is this time as he leans down and plants a hard, heartbreaking kiss to your lips.

Bucky rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in. 

"Hey, doll." His voice is rough and broken; severely out of use.

You give a small nuzzle against his head, savoring the touch, "Hey, Sarge."

His large calloused hand and cool metal hand cup your jaw gently. A warm thumb rubs small circles along the smooth flesh of your cheek.

"I tried so damn hard to get back before she went down." He pulls back, his blue eyes brimming with emotion. 

You place a small hand along his cheek, fingers pressed against the snarls of his dark beard. "It's okay, she wouldn't have been able to sleep. She's missed you too much. She'll be excited to see you in the morning."

You don't mention the fact that she's been crying for him almost every day since he left two months ago.

He presses a long kiss to your forehead, sweeps a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Missed her so much. Missed you too." He smiles, all worn out and sad. His lips are cracked. You wonder where he was. His skin looks tanner than usual. Somewhere warm then.

Pulling you close to his chest, he nuzzles his face into your messy and unwashed hair. Your arms wrap around his middle, forcing the tears back. His breath is warm on your scalp, “Missed you so damn much, baby.”

“Missed you too,” You murmur into his shirt, pulling him closer with a longing urgency. The smell of sweat and dried blood and his deodorant - God, how you missed that scent - tangle between his clothes. Pushing your face further into his gray t-shirt, never wanting to let him go again.

He drops down to a knee, cupping your face once again, “God, you’re beautiful.”

You haven’t showered in two days, been in the same clothes for five, thrown up a few times, and probably have bits and pieces of Becca’s assorted meals all over you.

Giving a scoff as you pull from his grasp, “Clearly you just haven’t seen a human female in two months.”

He grins, “Nope, but you are looking mighty fine. You’re not married are you?”

Holding your hand up, you extend your ring finger with a waggle, small metal band gleaming in the lamplight. “Afraid I am, Soldier. Just don’t tell my husband.”

He smiles into the kiss. A dark vibranium finger clinks against your ring purposely. Leaning back into the couch cushions, he follows after you. Kisses are dropped down your jawline and neck, the roughness of the beard a strange contrast against your sensitive skin. He nestles his head on your chest. Breathing you in once more. His hand plops down on the pillow from the bedroom, gives it a curious squeeze. Pulling back, his eyes squint slightly in question, “You feeling okay, doll?”

You wanted to tell him. He had called from a burner phone three weeks back. And you wanted the secret to come bursting through the gates because he had to know. But god only knows what that would have done to the mission. That man would move heaven and earth to get back home. And who knows what trail of horror would be left in his wake. So you kept it down, kept it to yourself.

His hands squeeze your knees gently, “Babe?”

Balling your hands into a tight fist to steady yourself, your gaze falls to the black and gold inlays of his left hand.

“I’m late.”

He cocks his head to the side. Not following.

Lifting your head up, your stare unwavering, “I’m  _ late,  _ Buck. About two months late.”

It takes a minute and then his eyes widen with realization, gaze falling to your stomach then back to your face.

You rub your hand over your forehead tiredly, “I wanted to do this different. God. Uhm, I have a picture. You know what it looks like, it’s just a white bean-shaped thing, but - “

Your rambling is cut short by a rough kiss.

A sense of relief floods through the worry and anxiety of your mind. You smile into it as he wraps you into a tight embrace. Kisses the side of your head. Steadies his breathing with a low and ragged exhale.

“How long have you - “

You laugh, “Like four weeks along. On the dot.”

He pulls back, rubs a hand over his scraggly facial hair. He looks dazed. About as dazed as you’ve felt for the past few months keeping it to yourself all this time. “God, doll.”

Enjoying his stunned reaction, you grin, “Tell me about it. I wanted to tell you the minute I found out!”

“Aw, hell.” He wraps his arms back around you. Rests his chin on your shoulder. "Does she know?"

You turn in the embrace, neck craning to look at him, "Does  _ who _ know?"

"Beck." His chin bounces on your shoulder as he says it.

The laugh bubbles up from your chest before you can help yourself, "I doubt she'd comprehend it at this age, hun."

He hums in reply. Your fingers travel up to card through the long mangled strands of his hair. You both could use a shower right about now. "So, you already went in?"

"Yeah, two weeks ago. I wanted to wait, but they were gonna be booked solid and I didn't know when you'd come back - "

He gently shushes you, a smile playing on his lips, "It's okay, really." He looks around the room for a moment, "I was promised an ultrasound?"

"Oh, yeah, just - " He moves to the side as you get off the couch. Walking over to the small blue desk by the stairs, you pull the picture out from the center drawer. 

You hold it down, handing it over to his eager hands. His right index finger traces over the little shape. Just like you had spent hours doing already. When he looks up at you, his eyes are shining. He extends his hand out, which you take as he guides you into his lap. Wrapping his arms around you, you both stare at the photo. Gently nudging the side of your head with his own, he murmurs, "Here we go again."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com/).


End file.
